


Say Something

by kalika_999



Series: Jack and Brock's misadventures [121]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Death, Denial, HYDRA Husbands, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/pseuds/kalika_999
Summary: We’re okay.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Jack and Brock's misadventures [121]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/547894
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Say Something

**Author's Note:**

> I looked to Ines and said: Hey so can I write a short mcd? And in turn she said: Pls.
> 
> Also this only happened because I was watching Let's Plays and one youtuber brought back a memory of the song Say Something by A Great Big World after he was killed by a monster and well, I was struck to write something sad.

“When we get back, yer goin’ on a diet, Jesus.”

Despite the quip being a common one these days, his voice sounds strained to his own ears, high and tight in his throat.

He’s chest high in swamp muck and hasn’t made sure they’re not about to encroach crocodile territory. Jack’s boot gets stuck in the mud and he has to lose it to hide them away from danger.

“We'll be okay ‘ere.” He states, grasping to him tightly.

Jack doesn’t look up, curled over in an awkward angle against Brock’s left arm, back pressed to his chest. The other half of the team was lost miles back. Brock heard the stark shot of a rifle in Jack’s direction and suddenly the only thing he saw was a mist of red that seemed to shower outward from Jack’s chest. Brock snapped into immediate action.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He’d only stopped long enough to haul Jack’s arm over his shoulder before stumbling further out into the swamps again.

Buzzing, noisy insects almost drown out the pounding of his heart in his ears. He squeezes harder. He can hear heavy armor vehicles somewhere not quite close, and there’s a faint ongoing thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades sweeping low. He can’t think about those things either. 

He proceeds to move ahead instead, like any other mission gone wrong. There hasn’t been many but they’ve been trained to keep moving, to react even when it becomes something of an unknown. Keep going no matter the odds against them. “We’re gonna get outta ‘ere. I called fer back up. Johnson’s ugly ass face’ll be there and he’ll patch ya up with stories of his stupid shitty cats.” 

Their comms were scrambled or lost during the ambush. He has no idea if Rogers even knows they’re in trouble. Can’t think about that problem right now.

He can’t even check on how bad it is. On how he feels the warm blood seeping down Rollins’ chest despite wading through cool brackish water and decaying vegetation that should distract him from it. It’s so warm and Brock keeps on running his mouth.

“You’ll be fine. Jus a graze, I promise ya, Jackie. When ya get patched up and on some pain killers, I’m gonna take ya to that place ya wanted to visit. What was it? Snake Alley? We’ll have a few drinks, eat all the local dishes and buy a few ugly souvenirs fer home, yeah? Then on home soil, I’m gonna pull a few strings and get us a reservation from that fancy Italian place you’ve been whinin’ about goin’ to. I know now why it was so important fer ya to get a table. Jus ‘ave some patience, we can do it all soon.” 

There isn’t an answer. Deep in the back of his mind, buried under the panic, he knows he won’t get one.

“Yeah, I know, Darlin’. I know. After this, jus hittin’ some tourist site and some fancy dinner ain’t gonna cut it. You deserve better. You deserve everythin’ in the whole damn world and then some after all this bullshit. I know I fucked it up today, so here’s the plan. After the visit, after the five star Italian, we take some time off. We can go anywhere you want.” His voice pitches a little, shudders as his eyes sting while he considers vacation plans. “Hell we can even go meet yer family back in Poland like you’ve been talkin’ about doin’. I know I’m a little, okay yeah, I’m real fuckin’ apprehensive about meetin’ yer folks but, sure. Yer right, it’s time. Okay, Jackie? That work fer you? Please be okay.”

He can feel trembling against his body. It takes him a moment to realize he’s the one doing it.

“Yer gonna be alright. Buck’ll be mad if ya ain’t and we all know we don’t want that now, do we? And Wanda? Kid’s gonna want those bakin’ lessons she’s been buggin’ ya about since she caught you with the bread dough.” He forced out a laugh, his throat hurt. “Can’t hide all yer talents, ya know. Yer supposed to be in that sharpshootin’ bet on the weekend with Barton too, remember? I bet on ya so don’t disappoint me.” 

His comm statics to life and Clint’s on the other end, noises of weapon fire coming through and it makes him jump, reflexively pulling Jack tighter to him. Jack’s long limbs only fold over further, silent and horribly still, his face dips into the water they’re wading through. Brock slides his arms higher around his chest, hauls him further upright so he doesn’t drown himself.

He refuses to look down when his hand doesn’t meet fabric or smooth skin at the bank, but instead is pressed to shredded, torn muscle. He can’t process how wrong it feels, how it shouldn’t be that way. Can’t think about how the hole gapes, how there’s insides coming outside, how much blood’s left him.

It’s a vain gesture when he pushes up all the fabric he can muster of Jack’s shirt against the damage.

“I got ya, promise. We’re okay.”

He does it anyway. Buries his face into Jack’s neck like he does when they lay in bed and forget about the world around them, and prays.

He won’t think about how Jack hasn’t drawn a breath since he’d fallen on his knees. 

Brock’s own breath is labored and short as he starts to rock back and forth against a tree. His face is damp, be it from the blood or mud or tears. He doesn’t know which one it is. Doesn’t care.

Words spill from his lips, a desperate ramble of words to keep hope alive and ignore every single flag of red washing over him. 

“I saw the ring, Jackie. I saw it. I love ya, I do. I shouldn’t be tellin’ ya this but I’ll say yes, promise. Yer gonna be fine. Please. Please.”


End file.
